Who Shot JKR?
by ghettopeach
Summary: Someone killed J.K. Rowling before she finished writing Book 7... and it might have been someone from within the story itself. Thursday Next investigates.
1. Murder by the Book

This is a crossover with Jasper Fforde's amazing Thursday Next series (_The Eyre Affair_, _Lost in a Good Book_, _The Well of Lost Plots_, _Something Rotten, _and now _First Among Sequels_). Thursday Next essentially investigates literary crimes and also has the power to jump within books themselves. Certain things will make a lot more sense if you have read the books. (Go on. You know you want to. I'll wait.) Also, since this story takes place roughly 20 years after the last TN book, there are spoilers for the series, if such a thing troubles you. (Naturally, you can expect spoilers for the Harry Potter series through _Half-Blood Prince_.)

On that note, I made up the character of Thursday's daughter Saturday, but her existence was (sort of) consistent with canon at the point when I started writing the story.

One final caveat: Within the TN series, characters in books often act differently when they're not in a book scene, much like actors. So the definition of "in character" is quite a bit more flexible, but I tried to respect the essence of the Harry Potter characters. Enjoy the occasionally ludicrous outbursts, but do let me know of any unduly flagrant character violations.

Thanks to all my readers. Errors in the first chapter have now been corrected.

* * *

It was almost never good news when I got called into Norman Braddock's office, and today was no exception. He gestured to a chair as I shut the door behind me. I placed my hands on the back of the chair and leaned forward. "Well?"

Braddock sighed. "Look, Thursday, you know it's been a hard year for SO-27. With public interest in literature waning, most of the big gangs and petty criminals have moved on to more profitable activities. And since there's not much of a threat anymore, and since what little threat exists is only to literature—"

He sensed my impending outburst and moved quickly to deflect it. "I know, I know. Those in power are young and foolish—they don't know how important literature is. Which makes it increasingly difficult to get funding…"

"So, no raise," I interrupted. My fingers tightened around the chair. I'd been looking forward to a nice, relaxing vacation with Landen—a Greek island, perhaps, or somewhere in the South Pacific. Somewhere warm, exotic, and completely book-free.

"It's more than that," Braddock said. "We have to cut back, both on resources and… personnel."

"You can't fire me!" I shouted. "I've been here for almost thirty years! Which has to be at least three times as long as you've been here. And while you've been sitting here counting pennies, I've been risking my life, my sanity and my family every day out in the field. I saved Jane Eyre, or had you forgotten that? I arrested 283 Shakespeare forgers, rescued priceless Dickens manuscripts from a terrorist fire, and single-handedly forced the government to reverse its embargo on foreign literature seven years ago! Damn it, Braddock, I'm a good literary detective—more than that, I'm the best you've got, and if you think—"

"Thursday," Braddock said. His voice had a mournful, resigned tone to it. I stopped mid-tirade, took a deep breath, and sat down. I had a feeling I'd need to be sitting for this.

"It doesn't matter, Thursday," he said. "It's not even up to me anymore. Five months from now, we won't have the money to pay a single employee, much less run the office. SO-27 is shutting down."

"But…" My mind reeled from the shock. "There has to be something we can do. We could band together, get a loan—I think I have some savings…"

Braddock looked at me as though I were a child offering water wings to a man drowning in the middle of the ocean. "We can't fight the good fight anymore, Thursday," he said. "The war is over, and we've lost."

-----

I slammed the door and collapsed on the couch with my pet dodo Pickwick, determined to watch as many mind-deadening episodes of _Celebrity Name that Fruit! _as I could stomach. As luck would have it, the show was preempted for ineptly edited music videos to songs I couldn't stand, and followed by a _Heaps of Humiliation _marathon. Three hours later, I was in a fouler mood than before. Even the lower forms of entertainment seemed to have grown lower and crasser with each passing year. It seemed as though the world was changing just to spite me… or was I just getting old?

"Bad day?" Saturday asked, poking her head into the room. It always startled me how much my youngest daughter looked like me, although she tried to offset her plainness by dyeing her hair dark blue and getting a new piercing every few months.

"They're disbanding Spec-Ops," I said.

"Well," she said, "at least Dad's still making money."

"Hmph!" I said sourly. "He won't be for long, since the public isn't interested in literature anymore. Good thing you got that job at Smiley Burger."

"I think the public's interest may peak again," Saturday said. "Jo just died."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "It'd be all over the news if she had. You can't believe everything you read on the Internet."

The telly suddenly cut to a special report. "This just in!" said a breathless reporter with a hairstyle that looked like it had been set with shellac. "The phenomenally popular children's book author J.K. Rowling has just been found dead inside her Edinburgh home. We now go live to the scene with Scotland Yard investigator Lawrence Ealing. Officer Ealing, what can you tell us about this tragedy?"

Officer Ealing seemed about as happy to talk to the reporter as I had usually been. "We have to keep some things mum for investigative reasons," he said.

"But do you suspect foul play?" the reporter asked eagerly.

"Can't comment on that," said Officer Ealing.

The reporter lowered her eyelashes and leaned in furtively. "You know she died without finishing the seventh Harry Potter book," she said. "What do you think would have happened?"

"I don't know," Officer Ealing said. He sighed. "But I will say—off the record, mind—that if she killed off anyone else besides Voldemort, I would've been rather put out."

I turned off the telly and looked over at Saturday. She smirked. "Score one for the Internet," she said.

"Even a broken clock's right twice a day," I said. But the news story had given me an idea. I pulled a duffel out of a cupboard and began throwing items into it haphazardly. "Anyway, once your dad comes out of the den, tell him I'll be in Edinburgh, will you?"

-----

I parked my car and pushed aside the police caution tape. An officer stopped me and I held up my Spec-Ops badge. "Thursday Next, Spec-Ops 27," I said.

"What's that, then?" asked the officer.

"Literary detective division. This might be our jurisdiction. Mind if I have a look?"

The officer barred my way. "Don't think so."

I tried another tack. "Look, Jo was a friend of my husband's. Landen Park-Laine. Have you heard of him?"

"I'll take it from here, Guillen," Officer Ealing said. His sharp grey eyes scrutinized me. "I've heard of him, and I've heard of you."

"Well then, it shouldn't be a problem," I said, putting on my most charming smile.

"I've heard you're a pain in the arse," he said.

"That's true, I'm afraid," I said.

"Well, so am I," he said. "So we should get on fine." He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. "Lawrence Ealing. Come on in."

He led me upstairs to Jo's writing room. She was splayed out on the floor, blood clotted on her long blonde hair. I grimaced. "What have you got so far?"

He flipped through a small notebook. "Bullet wound through the skull, but no bullet and no sign of the weapon. Also—"

I suddenly heard the strains of heavy metal music. Turning around, I noticed a group of young men in grungy black shirts and shredded leather pants jamming away on dilapidated instruments.

"I cut myself cuz you don't love me,

Despair is my knife.

If only you weren't so far above me,

I could have a happy life.

Despair! Despair! Despair!"

I covered my ears against the high-pitched growls that passed as vocalization. "Did you let them in?" I asked.

"No," Ealing said. "They were already here when the police got here."

"Hey!" I shouted. "Did you all see anything?"

They paused mid-screech and turned to me. "Shit, lady," the guitarist said. "All I know is we were jamming in Mace's garage, and then we were here with this corpseola."

"And that didn't strike you as odd?" I asked, my eyebrows raised slightly.

"Hey, can't stop the music, man," he said. "Plus, I mean, we're on crazy-ass amounts of drugs, y'know, heroin, meth, LDS. No, wait, LSD. LCD? Whatever makes you see colored lights and weird shit like that."

"Well, that could be LSD or LCD, but I think you mean LSD," I said.

"Right," he said. "So I've seen weirder, and anyway, it's probably just a trip and all."

"Probably so," I said. Although I knew they had to have gotten into Jo's house somehow, their brains obviously weren't up to the task of figuring out how. I turned back to Ealing. "What else?"

"Well, there's a scorch mark on her chest," he said. "But again, no weapon. And this is strange too. Look at this."

He pointed to the head wound, which was covered with a stringy, sticky substance. I sniffed delicately. "Spearmint," I said. "That's…" I had a nagging feeling that I knew what this meant, and that it was trouble, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

My mobile rang. I looked at the number: Saturday. "What is it?" I asked.

"The 'Net's going crazy," she said. "Someone leaked a copy of Jo's manuscript."

"What? Who would have done that? Who even could have?"

"I don't know—inside job, maybe, or a hacker. Anyway, I'm wondering if it wasn't one of the fan groups who did her in. I mean, some people weren't happy with where it was going—the pro-Pures, the Harmonians…"

"In my mind, I go over the rainbow

Where the puppies fly,

Where the puppies die,

Cuz everything dies,

Even over the rainbow."

"Sorry, I didn't catch that last bit," I said, covering my ears against the sudden influx of amplified dissonance.

"Is that Agony?" Saturday asked excitedly.

"Sure feels like it," I said, wincing.

"No, I mean that's them, that's Agony! Playing 'Reality Over the Rainbow.' Are they over there right now? Seriously, they're like my favorite band! You are so lucky, you know that?"

"Band… of course! Call you back, Sat!" I hung up and turned to Ealing excitedly. "I think I know what happened here. I've seen this before. It's a mispeling vyrus. Very early stages. But two people were here: one with a gun and one with a wand. After being misspelled, the gun became gum, and the wand became a band. That's why you can't find the weapons!"

"But then… you're implying…"

"Yes, I think a fictional character was in some way involved. Or someone who has been in the fictional world enough to bring the infection with him or her."

Ealing looked at me sympathetically. "Look, Ms. Next, I appreciate that you're trying to help. But I think you want to help, you want to solve the death of your friend, and so you're seeing things that aren't there. I think that even if fiction had that power over reality once, it doesn't anymore." He put his hand on my shoulder. "Look, we'll get to the bottom of this. Leave it to us."

Over the years, I'd learned better than to argue with well-meaning people hopelessly mired in their own limited view of the world. "All right," I said. "But do you mind if I look through Jo's manuscript before I go? Just to see if there's anything helpful there?"

"Of course," Ealing said. "It's right there on her computer. Just… don't give me any spoilers, all right?"

"No problem," I said. I dialed Saturday's mobile number. "Sat, find the manuscript and read your way in. I'll meet you in the Great Hall."

I double-clicked on the manuscript and began reading. Within seconds, I had jumped straight into Hogwart's.

-----

The scene at the Great Hall could only be described as anarchic. Students, witches and wizards gathered, along with centaurs, unicorns, giants and house elves. Everyone was talking loudly and worriedly. I scanned the room, looking for someone who might be in charge. I missed the days when Miss Havisham would pop in and take over. But I'd done all right for myself in all the years since. Still, she had a certain flair I could never quite duplicate.

"What are you doing?" asked a bushy-haired girl suspiciously. "Everybody knows you can't apparate inside Hogwart's." She held her wand at ready.

"I didn't apparate, Hermione," I said. "I read in. I'm an Outlander."

"Oh, well, that's different then," she said, tucking her wand back into the sleeve of her robe. "Can't be too careful, though, especially after what's happened."

"I understand," I said. "How's everybody taking it? By the way, I'm Thursday Next."

"A pleasure, Ms. Next," Hermione said. "Well, you can see everyone's concerned. We're afraid of being salvaged or reduced to text—I mean, I know the books are best-sellers and all, but no one's safe really, are they?"

"I suppose not," I said.

"Of course, now we don't know how the story will turn out," Hermione said, biting her lip apprehensively. "So a lot of people have started getting their own ideas…"

I heard a voice from an area where several students had gathered. "Well, bugger all, I don't see why we shouldn't have an orgy, if only to pass the time," said a tall red-haired boy.

An athletic Gryffindor girl smirked at him. "Right then, go ahead and get naked."

"Ladies first," he said.

"Absolutely," said another identical boy. "We're nothing if not chivalrous."

"Chivalrous, right." She rolled her eyes. "Any more knightly bullshit and you're getting another bludger to the head."

Another voice caught my ear. This one came from a corner, and it had a sensuous, serpentine tone to it. "Naturally, Ms. Rowling intended that I win the final battle," a cloaked figure said. "You've noticed, of course, her more sympathetic portrayal of me as the books progressed… I had her within my grasp, and this had to happen."

"I think V-Voldemort's a bit daft, frankly," Hermione whispered. "Of course, everyone's feeling the pressure."

"OF ALL THE TIMES FOR J.K. ROWLING TO DIE!" shouted a dark-haired young wizard with a distinctive lightning-shaped scar. He stormed down the stairs, and everyone scuttled out of his way as he paced across the Great Hall, his robes streaming behind him. "SIX YEARS OF GROWTH AND TRIALS AND EVERYONE I LOOK UP TO DYING, AND FOR WHAT? WHY DIDN'T SHE JUST LEAVE ME IN THE CUPBOARD UNDER THE STAIRS? THAT INSENSITIVE BITCH!"

"How do you think I feel?" yelled a red-haired boy in ratty robes. "No one even noticed me for four years except as your friend! And now I'm right back to nothing! Bloody hell!"

"SHUT UP! NO ONE SUFFERS AS MUCH AS I DO!"

"I hope you're getting a good view of your arse, because it looks like your head's stuck there!"

"Ron! Harry!" Hermione shouted as the two began punching each other. "Excuse me," she said hastily. "I'd better… Boys! Honestly!"

Saturday appeared suddenly, right in the middle of the fight. Ron pushed Harry into her, nearly knocking her over, but neither he nor Harry seemed to notice. Saturday picked herself up with a grin and waved to me. I hurried over to her.

"Well," she said. "Looks like I got here just in time."

"I expected you earlier," I said. "I was beginning to worry."

"Well, I haven't done this as often as you have," she said with a hint of irritation. "Besides, I'm a slow reader."

"Never mind," I said. "We just need to get this mess straightened up. If we're lucky, there's already someone here from Jurisfiction; if not, I'll have to footnoterphone Text Grand Central and get someone over here."

Saturday nodded briskly and looked over the room, appraising the situation. I could tell she was trying not to get too overwhelmed, or to squeal any time she saw one of her favorite characters. In the meantime, it looked like no one was in any hurry to stop the brawl between Harry and Ron, which left it up to me.

"Jurisfiction!" I shouted at them. "Stop what you're doing and put your hands behind your head!" They didn't seem to hear me. Either that or I didn't quite inspire mortal terror like I used to.

A tall, pale man with stringy black hair grabbed Harry and Ron by the ears. "Fighting? Fifty points from Gryffindor. And, I think, another seventy for failing to heed an order from Jurisfiction." He released them roughly. "If you cause any more trouble, I will put in an extermination request with Text Grand Central. Barring that, I'll take an eraserhead to you myself."

The two grumbled and ambled away. The man turned to me. "My apologies," he said. "I'm Severus Snape. I'm a Jurisfiction agent as well. I regret you arrived to find things so… out of hand."

"I've seen worse," I assured him. "Anyway, that's not really why I'm here. I found evidence suggesting Jo—I mean, J.K. Rowling—was murdered by someone with ties to the fictional world."

Snape's jaw tightened. "A serious accusation, Agent…?"

"Next," I said. "Thursday Next. And I know. That's why my daughter Saturday and I are here to investigate."

"Very well. I shall assist you, assuming a quid pro quo."

"Naturally," I said. I knew he was too proud to ask for help containing the situation, but I could tell he needed it. This was a difficult situation under the best of circumstances, and Snape couldn't have been a Jurisfiction agent for very long. "If you could just get everyone's attention?"

Snape nodded and shot a flurry of white sparks up with his wand. Everyone turned toward him. Gathering all the confidence I could muster, I addressed the crowd. "As you all know, your author has died. But what you might not know is that she was murdered, probably by someone with ties to the Outland."

Shocked murmurs greeted my pronouncement. "I know it's shocking," I said. "But that does mean that while the crime is under investigation, the books are safe from salvage. And once we find the murderer, it's possible we'll know the plot the murderer was trying to sabotage by killing the author. And then we'll have an ending."

Spontaneous bursts of applause came from a few sections of the room. "I can't guarantee it'll be published," I said. "But at least you'll have an idea of what it is. You'll have a future. So if I can enlist your cooperation, it's in everyone's best interest. Are you with me?"

I heard several yeses; not an overwhelming plurality, but at least most of the characters seemed calmer and less apt to riot. "Good," I said. "Bring any information to me, to Professor Snape, or to Saturday, the girl with the blue hair. I promise we'll get to the bottom of this. Jo was a good friend and a good writer. You all deserve the truth, at least."

I stepped down, and everyone resumed their activities. The room seemed to take on a more serious tone. Saturday walked up to me. "Just one thing you seem to have forgotten," she said. "What are we going to tell Dad?"

I had forgotten about Landen, and it pricked at my conscience. When he was eradicated for three years, I swore to myself I'd never forget him. But the book world was as much my life as Landen was, and with SO-27 shutting down, this might be my last chance to do any good for the written world.

"We'll send him a note so he doesn't worry," I said. I hugged Saturday, much to her annoyance. "And we're going to tell him… it's girl's night out."


	2. All Bets are On

"Early on in any case, there must be established a solution to the riddle that is neat, simple and wrong. The detective must immediately intuit that the theory, although universally accepted, is somehow lacking. Now he or she needs merely to debunk it, and proceed thence to the (retroactively obvious) solution."

THE MOST WORSHIPFUL GUILD OF DETECTIVES

_Rules of Mystery_

"You-Know-Who did it," Cedric Diggory declared. This statement was met by murmurs of agreement.

"Oh come off it, you're just sore because he killed you," George Weasley said.

"And you're still sore because you didn't get to compete in the Tri-Wizard Cup," Cedric said. George glowered. "Anyway, you have to admit it makes sense. He's worked so hard not to die, and if Rowling gets her way, he's bound to, isn't he?"

"Diggory's got a point," Fred said. "But if you don't see it that way, perhaps you'd like to place a small wager? Say, five Galleons?"

"You're on."

I debated whether to intervene before a full-fledged betting parlour emerged, but decided against it. Their odds for and against various suspects could prove a valuable gauge of public opinion, at the very least.

"Twenty-five Galleons on the Dark Lord," said Professor McGonagall. "I assume you've calculated his odds at 5-1?"

I gaped. I hadn't pegged McGonagall as a betting woman—even knowing how different book characters could be in person hadn't shaken my impression of her as fundamentally law-abiding.

Apparently Fred had the same issue. "Er—right you are," he said, looking a little flustered. "Though I don't think anyone besides my brother here is batty enough to bet against him."

"Yeh'd hafta be mad," Hagrid rumbled from the corner. "'Less it was Snape—never did like the looks o' him, meself."

A wispy yet oddly resonant voice interrupted. "The Divine Eye has foreseen this grave destruction and into the very soul of its foul perpetrator. Fifteen Sickles on Firenze."

"Well, there you go," Fred said. "For the good Professor Trelawny, 125-1 on the centaur Firenze."

"Why are you doing this?" Harry interrupted. "We all _know _it's Voldemort. So let's just send him to Azkaban or prison or whatever."

Voldemort sneered and glided across the room. "It could have been you, Potter. The Boy Who Lived—you don't want to give that up, do you? Survive the attacks of the Dark Lord only to be brought down by an unexceptional middle-aged Muggle woman. Pathetic." His nostril slits flared.

"Shut up! I'm not going to die—you are!" Harry brandished his wand. "I'll kill you right now if I have to!"

Voldemort smiled and raised his wand. "You mean, if you can."

"STUPEFY!"

"PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!"

Harry and Voldemort fell over flat on their backs, and Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood discreetly put their wands away.

"Thank you," I said. "Let's not jump to any conclusions."

"No need to turn this into a witch hunt," Saturday put in. "Er—a witch and wizard hunt."

I doubted Voldemort had killed her anyway. He seemed too confident of his own invincibility; even more telling, of his good standing with Rowling. Of course it could be an act, but there were many equally likely candidates.

My eyes scanned the room, looking for some obvious clue, a suspicious person, or some other promising line of inquiry. It had to be someone who had something to gain from Jo's death. Maybe someone marked for death who wanted to live, or a liaison not blessed with authorial approval. I'd certainly run into enough of those in my time. But there had to be something else I wasn't considering…

"I'm a little confused," Saturday said. She reached into her large purse, unrolled a rumpled tan raincoat and slipped it on. "It seems like it'd be hard to jump to the Outland. I mean, probably most people couldn't do that, right?"

"There are weak spots in some of the books in the character exchange program," Nymphadora Tonks said helpfully.

Hermione raised her hand. "There's supposed to be a lost spell that lets you jump."

"Reckon you could probably get out through the Internet," Ron said.

I pondered the options and glanced quickly over the crowd to gauge everyone's reactions. Several people seemed surprised at the information, so I crossed them off the mental list of likely suspects. Others simply nodded knowingly. Dobby, though, looked downright stricken and I wondered why.

I made my way toward the house-elf and stooped down to his height. "Do you know something, Dobby?"

He looked up at me miserably. "Dobby promised not to tell."

"You understand how important it is to tell me. People have died, do you understand?"

"She said you would kill her. Dobby can't take that, no, such a nice girl…"

I sighed. "Dobby, I'm not going to kill anyone. I promise. I'm just here to make sure we find whoever killed your creator. All right?"

He twisted his grungy shirt between his fingers. "She comes to me, asking, 'Just one more thing.' And Dobby helps her, and Dobby won't tell any more."

I knew I wasn't going to get a name out of him, so I tried another tack. "That's wise," I said. "You have to keep your friend safe. But it must have been a very strange question."

"Very strange!" Dobby said, hopping from one foot to the other. "Why does nice girl want to know where dungeon is? Not a good place at all."

"Oh, _no_," I muttered. I looked around frantically for Saturday, but she was nowhere to be seen. Clearly she had leaped to the obvious conclusion: the likeliest world-jumper is a Jurisfiction agent. And she had decided to interrogate him—alone, of course.

Why did I never plan for my daughter's reckless stupidity? I thought it unlikely that Snape would hurt her, but decided that even if he wanted to, he wouldn't get the chance. Because I was going to kill her.

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A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read, reviewed, and favorited! Sorry for the long delay; hope it doesn't disappoint. I'm doing my frantic best to finish the story in time for the Deathly Hallows premiere, so wish me luck!


	3. Snape's Dungeon

"After a few years of fanfic, you think nothing can faze you anymore. Once, on a dare, I read a story involving an orgy with the Whomping Willow, the giant squid and friends. Seriously. So what could be so bad after that, right? When I followed Snape to his secret room off the dungeons, I thought I was ready. Fanfic had prepared me for any number of torture devices, sextasmic toys and of course soul-chilling darkness… but nothing could have prepared me for this."

SATURDAY NEXT

_Private Diaries_

My eyes still hadn't adjusted to the darkness of the corridors behind the dungeons. I wished, looking back, that I'd thought to bring some kind of weapon. At least I'd locked all the doors behind me. And I'd nicked some Veritaserum too, although that'd be a laugh against some ferocious magical beast, or worse, Mum.

If only it weren't so dark… Then I remembered I had a torch in my purse. Brilliant, Saturday. I switched it on and checked around me. Nothing. Good. There was a door in front of me, which was where he'd probably gone. It wasn't locked, oddly, although there was a strange sound coming from it.

I put my ear to the door, but I must have been hearing things. Some sort of bizarre enchantment or something.

"You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, cryin' all the time. You ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine."

I opened the door to dazzling light. The glittering neon of a jukebox. And at a soda counter sat Severus Snape, his black robes trailing to the floor. He leaned his head against his forehead and sipped a strawberry milkshake.

"Leave or make yourself useful, Miss Next," he snapped.

"Er… sorry, sir?" I backed guiltily against the wall.

He tossed me a bronze coin I didn't recognize—it must have been a Knut. "E3," he said.

"Oh!" I slid the Knut into the coin slot of the jukebox and pushed E3.

"Well she got her daddy's car and she's cruisin' through the hamburger stand now…"

A sound almost like a laugh escaped me—but believe me, I was too scared to really laugh. "This isn't what I expected, sir. I mean, respectfully. All due respect, but isn't it a little… well, silly?"

He glared at me. I had thought it would be hot to be the focus of Snape's gaze, but this was just scary. Not sexually charged interest so much as the kind of look that really could kill. The same look Mum was bound to give me once she figured out I'd sneaked off. Damn, damn, damn.

"Miss Next, have I ever invaded your privacy?"

"N-no sir."

"Do I insult your posters of half-naked androgynous men or your pretentiously melodramatic music?"

I blushed. He had to be guessing, but it was too accurate for comfort. "Well, no."

"Then shut up."

"Right, I'm sorry, I was just trying to—"

"Do you understand the meaning of 'shut up,' Miss Next?"

"Well, I'm just trying to figure out who else knows how to book-jump, because otherwise it's got to be you, hasn't it? And I don't think it _is _you, because you're a good person deep down, right, trying to redeem yourself and everything—"

"I find your naïveté no more charming than your blithering idiocy."

"So…" I swallowed and backed up a few steps. "You're evil, then? I mean, still working for Voldemort and all that?"

"I don't know."

Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't that. "Sorry, what?"

"My motivations are as mysterious to me as the workings of the universe. I have no idea whose side I'm on, or why I killed Dumbledore… and without a completed manuscript, I have no way of knowing. I am, as it were, simultaneously good and evil."

"Sort of like Schrödinger's cat?"

"That is not an entirely inept analogy."

I tried to think of something comforting to say, but all I came up with was, "You have a milkshake mustache."

Snape wiped it off self-consciously on the sleeve of his robe. Suddenly I saw my opportunity.

"Can I make you another milkshake, Professor? I work at Smiley Burger, and the burgers are crap, but the milkshakes are amazing."

He nodded, and I stepped behind the counter and began making a strawberry milkshake. I discreetly pulled out the vial of Veritaserum and emptied it into the mixture.

"Must be interesting, working in Jurisfiction," I said conversationally. "All those books—I guess you see a lot of stuff other people don't get to."

He sipped the milkshake. "It's not nearly as unusual anymore. The Character Exchange Program makes sure of that." His voice took on a tinge of bitterness. "Nearly all of the Order participates, and of course Lucius visits _Wicked _every three months. If only he'd trade out with someone other than Galinda." He shuddered.

"Who else goes?"

"Filch, Longbottom, Chang, Lovegood… Potter doesn't go—why would he? He has all the fame he could want here…." Snape's eyelids began getting heavy, and his head slumped toward the table. He struggled to pull himself up. "You…"

I sprang up, alarmed. Snape began fumbling through his robe pockets, but before he could find what he was looking for, he passed out. I felt for a pulse and was relieved to find one. Guess that hadn't been Veritaserum after all. Or not just that, anyway.

What was I going to do now? At least he wasn't dead, although I probably would be once Mum found out. Unless….

I pulled out a few strands of Snape's hair. It really was greasy—reminded me of the oil we put the chips in at Smiley Burger. But it would work wonderfully for Polyjuice Potion. Brilliant, Saturday!

Now if only I could remember how to get out of here….


	4. The Hyperlink

Author Note: Thanks to all my readers for your reviews, enjoyment and support. Sorry for the long wait. Hope it was worth it. It shouldn't ever be quite that long again.

The plot is beginning to take some twists I didn't expect, so the story should go interesting places. Stay tuned!

* * *

"Insanity is hereditary; you get it from your children."

-Magnet from the refrigerator of Thursday Next

Hogwarts was bigger than I remembered, and definitely easier to get lost in. Besides, everything is scarier and more confusing when you're worried about your kid. I hobbled down the corridor toward what I hoped was the dungeon, my knee throbbing from when I had thrown myself off the moving staircase. "Saturday!" I yelled.

I heard a cackle above my head, and looked up just in time to see Peeves the Poltergeist fly by. "Not until tomorrow!" he said.

"Have you seen my daughter Saturday?" I asked, putting careful and (I hoped) intimidating emphasis on each word.

Peeves made a derisive farting noise and flitted off down the corridor, disappearing through the walls. The Bloody Baron looked at me and shook his head. Whether they had seen Saturday—or anything of importance—they were obviously not going to be any help. Fine.

"You!" I accosted a preteen Hufflepuff. "Which way to the dungeon?"

Apparently I sounded much harsher than I meant to, because the boy's hand was trembling as he pointed. "Th-third door to the left and down the staircase."

I smiled, and he seemed to breathe more easily. "Thanks. That helps a lot."

I wound my way down the stairs leading to the dank stone hallway. The heavy door shut behind me, swallowing all the comforting sounds of people talking and moving about, enveloping me in silence. I expected to hear the scuffling and squeaking of rats, but I didn't. Though I wasn't fond of rats, their absence was unsettling somehow. It left me hyperalert, my ears straining for sounds to the point of inventing them. What other explanation could there be for the insistent refrain of "Love Potion No. 9"?

I shook my head and flicked on my torch. Clear vision was more important than stealth right now. Aside from the instigating murder, no one had made any threatening overtures yet. Besides, there would no doubt be plenty of time to go skulking about dangerous, ill-lit locations later.

"Saturday?" I swept the room from wall to wall with my torch, and thought I saw an answering flicker of torch light.

"Mum?"

"Saturday!" I ran toward her voice, and the bouncing light at the other end of the corridor indicated that she was running toward me, too. At last she came into view, suddenly lit from overhead by a pulsing blue-green light. "Saturday, look out!"

She looked up and managed to leap to the side before being buried in a cascade of little blue pills. A Nigerian businessman landed on top of the pills and looked around, bewildered, as he adjusted his suit. His eyes lit up when he spotted Saturday. "Dear Sir/Madam," he began. As soon as he started speaking, the room was crawling with grammasites.

"Shit," I muttered, loading an eraserhead cartridge into my gun. I fired it into the biggest swarm, reducing them to text. Saturday was nervously reciting William Blake's "Jerusalem," just like I had taught her to do in these circumstances. And from above, someone shouted, "Stupefy!" I looked up to see Draco Malfoy hovering in the air near the vortex in the ceiling, stunning the grammasites from above. The hand that wasn't holding his wand held a fine mesh screen precariously against the ceiling.

"Leave the grammasites to us!" I shouted. "You get the Textual Sieve in place!" As though to reaffirm my point, a Dalek descended through the vortex. I couldn't tell how it had gotten there—through the BBC programming website, perhaps, or possibly a fan site—but I didn't have time to worry about it. While Draco placed the Textual Sieve over the vortex, I loaded another eraserhead cartridge. It wasn't a sofa, but it would do.

The Dalek turned toward me. "EX-TER-MIN—"

I pulled the trigger. Textual residue splattered all over me, and I wiped a sticky strand of letters off my face. I looked around. There were still nearly a dozen grammasites, and even "Jerusalem" wasn't keeping them at bay. This was bad. I footnoterphoned Snape for backup, but didn't get any reply.

The sieve clattered overhead as grammasites, PageRunners and other dangerous denizens of BookWorld tried to force their way through. Draco muttered under his breath, his wand pressed against the sieve as it tightened into place. Saturday looked up, her recitation slowing as she watched his progress.

"Keep going!" I shouted, but it was too late. No longer distracted by the irregular verb structure in Blake's poem, the grammasites turned their attention to Saturday. An adjectivore swooped down on her, its sharp beak tangling in her hair. She clenched its neck in her hands, and when that didn't loosen its grip, she threw herself down and pounded its head against the stone floor. It shrieked and snapped at her, its beak clicking.

"And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's pastures green?" I recited, getting a bead on the adjectivore. My hand shook a little—I knew the eraserhead wouldn't hurt Saturday, but it was still unnerving aiming a gun near my daughter's head. "And was the holy Lamb of God…" I closed my eyes, and I must have squeezed the trigger, because I heard the bang and felt the recoil vibrating down my arm.

When I looked up, she was smearing text off her face and spitting out the occasional vowel. "On England's pleasant pastures seen?" she continued, keeping her eye on the remaining swarm.

"Incarcerous!" Draco shouted from above. The grammasites found themselves bound to the wall, wrenching at the end of a short silver chain. Draco smirked, then wobbled—and plummeted, landing hard. He leveled a glare at the grammasites, dragged his wand arm out from under his body, and pointed his wand. "Avada Kedavra!" With a flash of green light, they disappeared.

I exhaled. As I took in a deep breath, my body's aches announced themselves. After a few winces and groans, Saturday rolled right back onto her feet, and Draco tucked his wand into his sleeve and brushed the dust from his robes as though nothing had happened. His eyes bored into mine with an insolent lift of the eyebrow, as though challenging me to censure his actions.

"I know that's an Unforgivable Curse," I said, "but under the circumstances, I think I'll forgive you."

He looked startled, and I realized he probably wasn't used to being let off the hook. Indulged, yes, or else raked over the coals for his failures—but never forgiven. Not that I intended to let him off scot-free. After all…

"My _hair_!" Saturday wailed, running her fingers through her hair, which was no longer blue—or choppy or punky or, for that matter, any adjective at all. It was just hair: no more, no less. Vicious buggers, adjectivores.

Draco looked annoyed. "Big deal," he said. "It's just hair. You're lucky to be alive."

"I know that!" she snapped. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and frowned when her fingers brushed a cut on her cheek. "Hey Mum, throw me a bandage, yeah?"

I rummaged through my bag and handed her a bandage, which she stuck over the wound. Draco watched, fascinated. "What good does that do?"

"It keeps it from getting infected while it heals," Saturday explained. "It'll be fine in a couple of days."

"Days?" His eyes boggled. "So you can't just…well, that's stupid."

"Are _you_ all right?" I asked, sensing that Saturday was about to take offense on behalf of Outlanders and Muggles everywhere.

He drew himself up with exaggerated stoicism. "Nothing I can't handle." He turned and started walking away.

"Oh, no you don't," I said. "You stay right there, young man."

Draco glanced back at me, alarmed, and broke into a run, staggering every time he landed too hard on his right ankle. I sprinted after him, caught him by the collar of his robe, and jerked him back. "What do you think you're doing, running an illegal hyperlink in a place like this? Do you know how dangerous that is? Do you know how many Jurisfiction infractions you've committed?"

"Big deal," he said, but there was fear behind his eyes.

"Wait a minute," Saturday interrupted. "When we got here, he was installing the Textual Sieve. So he's trying to keep it safe—well, I mean, sort of. I don't think the hyperlink was his idea."

Brilliant, Saturday! "You're right," I said, warming up my bad cop routine. "After all, Draco Malfoy's no mastermind. He's the pawn of whatever stronger group recruits him and tells him what to do. He's an errand boy. A gopher. A patsy."

His narrowed eyes and clenched jaw told me that I had hit him where it hurt. "That's not true! I'm important!"

"Of course you are," Saturday said. "It takes a lot of planning, yeah?"

"Right!" His eyes begged for sympathy. "They don't think of any of that, or they just don't bother…"

"And you're the one stuck finding the installer, generating the power, shielding it from detection…"

"Exactly! It's a complete nightmare!" Draco looked relieved to finally talk about it.

"It must take a lot of other people…" Saturday hinted.

"You have no idea. I—" Draco paused, and his face hardened into a sneer. "I see what you're doing. You think you're clever, don't you? Well, I'm not selling out."

I slammed my palm against the wall by his head and tried not to wince. "Do you know what Jurisfiction does to illegal hyperlink operators?"

"I don't care." His voice shook. "It's better than what will happen if they find out I talked."

"They?" Saturday hazarded a guess. "The Death Eaters?"

He gave her a scornful look. "Right."

A cheerful voice interrupted. "Wotcher, Draco!" Tonks bounded down the stairs. "Have you got the hyperlink…" She stopped when she noticed Saturday and me, and her expression grew stern as she continued, "…shut down, you naughty boy?"

I knew a cheap cover-up attempt when I saw one. "So you're just here to perform your moral duty, because you happened to hear that there was an illegal hyperlink in the dungeons?"

"That's right." She didn't quite meet my eyes.

"Where did you hear that from?"

"Oh, you know…around." She glanced at Saturday. "Oof, what happened to your hair?"

"Adjectivore," she replied. "What happened to yours?"

I wondered that myself. Her hair certainly wasn't the color of Lupin's anymore—unless he had decided that maraschino cherry with side-swept black fringe was a good look for him. Come to think of it, she must have changed it since I saw her in the Great Hall. As a Morphmagus, she could easily do that, but why…?

"Got bored. You know how it is. Want me to fix that for you?"

"Could you?" Saturday's voice radiated gratitude.

"No problem." Tonks patted her robes. "Um…Draco, could I borrow your wand?"

"Nice try," I said, keeping a tight grip on Draco's arm. "None of that."

"Fine." She pursed her lips and started muttering under her breath. Saturday's hair slowly darkened, then faded, and finally grew bluer in hue until it was the color of a new pair of jeans. "Better?"

Saturday held a strand out in front of her face for inspection. "Omigod, thank you so much!"

"Sure," Tonks said. "Happy to help. Well, I'll just be…"

"Not so fast!" I interrupted. "How did you know about the hyperlink? Who else is involved? And why would you need to borrow Draco's wand? _Where is yours?_" I stared a challenge at her, only to find that she had shrunk and started sprouting feathers—and before I could say anything else, she had turned into an owl and flown off down the corridor.

Draco smirked. "You'd better back out now," he said. "This is bigger than you know."

"Not a chance in hell," I said. "I've been at this business since before you were a glimmer in your author's eye. And now she's murdered, probably by one of her own characters. I've sworn to protect and serve the BookWorld and the Outland, and I'm not letting any of this PageRunning anarchy go unpunished on my watch. You're messing with the wrong person. I am Thursday Next, Jurisfiction, Last Bastion of Common Sense for the Council of Genres, and the right hand of justice. I will get to the bottom of this. And when I do, you had better pray to the Great Panjandrum that you're on my good side, kid."

I released his arm and he ran away, robes flapping behind him like the wings of a bat. Let him run. I had attached a small tracker to his wrist before I let him go. Draco Malfoy was BookMarked, and he wouldn't so much as go to the bathroom without my knowing it.

"You let him go?"

"He's scared," I said. "But he'll talk eventually, one way or another. We need to track down Tonks, too. Maybe we should get our hands on some Veritaserum. Where the hell is Snape?"

"Um." Saturday looked down, twisting her fingers together. "He's sort of…unconscious."

I gave her a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's not my fault! Someone obviously poisoned the Veritaserum, and—"

"WHAT?"

"Well, I mean, not poisoned, but drugged, you know? And I was just trying to interrogate him so I put some Veritaserum in his milkshake—did you know he likes milkshakes? I thought that was kinda weird, but I guess it's not my business, so anyway I gave him his milkshake and then he was unconscious so I left to find you and then there were the grammasites but I guess you knew about that part…"

I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "What were you_ thinking_?"

Annoyed, she pushed me away. "I was _thinking_ about how to solve the murder, because that's why we're here, right? And then I thought, I know it's a long shot, but maybe I should look for clues…"

"Don't get smart with me. You know what I mean. This is a dangerous place. Hogwarts, the Book World—all of it, even when there's not a murderer on the loose. Going off on your own could have gotten you killed."

"But it didn't."

"Don't interrupt me! There are proper procedures to follow... sensible precautions… protocols that are in place for a reason…."

Saturday looked at me as though I were speaking an alien language—which, in many ways, I was. When had I become so conservative? "All right, next time I'll ask first or footnoterphone or something."

"There won't be a next time. I'm sending you home."

She crossed her arms and glared at me, her eyes nearly level with mine. "I don't get it. If it was so dangerous, why did you ask me to come?"

"I thought you were ready." _I thought _I_ was ready _was what I meant, but couldn't say.

She looked down, her eyes filling with tears. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair." Even as I said it, I felt tired and hollow.

"You need me."

"Yes, I do. I need you alive. I need you safe. Please, Saturday."

Her eyes narrowed with sudden focus. "Wait a minute. Ron said you could probably get out through the Internet. We assumed they would get there through the e-book version, but…"

"But maybe he knew about the hyperlink!" I concluded.

"Right." She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. "Well, I guess I'd better head home now. Have fun working all those angles by yourself."

"Saturday—"

"Too bad, too, because I was hoping to get a chance to use this to make a Polyjuice Potion…" She held up a few strands of black hair that I took to be Snape's.

"I'll take those," I said, getting an odd feeling of déjà vu. What was it one of the future versions of myself had said? _Being a man for twenty-four hours was pretty weird…_

"No way," she said. "You want my help, you'll have to let me do it."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "First of all, I can get hair from Snape on my own. Second, I have other plans for you. Do you think you can use the hyperlink and trace where people might have gone?"

Saturday grinned as she handed over the strands of hair. "You bet." Then without warning, she started laughing. She inhaled deeply, which got the laughter in hand, but left the smile on her face. "I don't believe it. You want me to be safe… and you're sending me to the Internet?"


End file.
